


Badges and Blue Eyes

by orphan_account



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Ant-Man (Movies), Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Blood, Canon Disabled Character, Case Fic, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Mention of Stalking, Minor Ableist Language, Minor description of injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Profanity, literally in this instance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Detective Steve Rogers is called in to investigate a triple murder, the last person he thought would be the suspect was Bucky Barnes, vanished for thirteen years. With the help of his partner Sam and CSI Natasha, Steve must race to prove Bucky's innocence and escape conspiracy and corruption. But can he do so without revealing the past that he and Bucky share?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Murder at Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassandrasfisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandrasfisher/gifts).



> Well, this started off as a fairly small fic, but (as usual) spiraled into something way bigger. Here it is, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't have PTSD, nor do I know anyone personally that has it. If my representation is ableist/inaccurate, please let me know so I can correct it.

Steve looked across the police line at the three bodies, covered by white sheets. Red and blue lights flashed across them as sirens pierced the muggy evening, drawing a small crowd of gawkers. Slipping covers over his shoes, Steve ducked under the crime tape and walked through the crime scene. He stopped by where a woman in a CSI jacket was crouched, carefully photographing a muddy footprint.

“What have you got, Nat?” He asked, squatting on his haunches by her.

“Not much.” Natasha shook her head, a curl of red hair escaping from her stubby ponytail. “Perp ambushed the vics and dragged them into the bushes, COD looks like strangulation and blunt force combo. No fingerprints, not much fiber evidence either.” She pulled back the first sheet, revealing a woman with high cheekbones and a purple bruise around her neck.

“Doesn’t look like a hand, though,” Steve noted. “Not a garrotte, either.” Rather than being hand-shaped, two large bruises had blossomed across the dead woman’s throat in an almost pincer-shaped mark.

“We’ll need a full workup from the coroner, but my guess is the larynx was crushed instantly. We’ll get Stark to see if he can reverse-engineer anything that might’ve done this.”

Nodding, Steve wandered across the scene, to where another man was kneeling on the ground, prodding at one of the other bodies.

“Anything, Lang?”

Scott shook his head, appearing morbidly disappointed. “Nah,” he replied, “Too fresh. Even on a night like this, you’re not going to get enough insect activity to accurately call the time. We’re better off asking Banner.”

“Alright,” Steve noted, scribbling a memo in his journal to ask Bruce for a time of death. Sighing, he stretched his arms above his head. “I’m gonna head back to the precinct,” he said. “Start filling out the paperwork and all that. Let me know if you find anything.”

Natasha nodded, moving to the other side of the body to keep photographing. Meanwhile, another man moved away from where he was talking to a witness, drawing up beside Steve.

“Witness didn’t have much,” he offered, tucking his notepad away. “Got anything, Steve?”

Steve made a face. “Natasha says COD strangulation, maybe some blunt force. No prints, and most of the evidence matches the victims. This is gonna be a tough one, Sam.”

“Ah, we can handle it,” Sam said, nudging Steve’s shoulder with his own. “We got the Zola case, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” A small smile crossed Steve’s face as he remembered their first case together. Peggy had just moved out to Los Angeles with her fiancé, and Steve had been hesitant to work with anyone else. But Sam Wilson had instantly proved he deserved the title of Detective, working with Steve to take down one of the biggest corporate embezzlers of the decade. They were a well-oiled machine now, tackling New York’s most florid cases on a weekly basis. The only person Steve was closer to was Natasha.

In a rather morbid way, Steve was grateful for the torn ACL that had ended Natasha’s career as a ballerina and sent her down the path of law enforcement. They’d attended police academy together, Natasha choosing to specialize in forensic science while Steve became an officer. As they stood next to each other during the graduation ceremony, Natasha had quietly fist-bumped him, a wry smile on her face. Steve had gladly returned both the fist-bump and the smile, knowing that he had somebody he could truly, one hundred percent trust in his corner.

“Hellooooo? Earth to Steve?” Sam waved his hand in front of Steve’s face, interrupting the other man’s reminiscing. “Come on, partner, we’ve got paperwork to do.”

“And you know how much I love paperwork,” Steve said wryly. Looking at his watch, he made a face. “Not for too long though, my shift’s almost over.”

“So’s mine, genius.” Sam teasingly poked Steve in the ribs as they got into their car, Sam in the driver’s seat. “Same shift, remember?”

“Right.” Steve let out a small chuckle. “Let’s get going, then. The more we do now, the less we have to do tomorrow.”

Sam nodded, turning the keys in the ignition. They pulled out of the abandoned lot, navigating the usual traffic in silence until they returned to the precinct. The station was quiet when they entered, most of the officers having already left. Only one other detective remained - a petite woman with a surly expression and heavy eyeliner. She jerked her head in greeting when Steve and Sam entered, then resumed typing at her computer like it had personally offended her mother.

“Rough night, Jones?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, you could say that.” When Jessica refused to elaborate, Sam shrugged and made his way to his own desk, shuffling through his papers with a sigh. Steve mirrored the gesture, pulling a pen out of his caddy and starting to fill out the forms. Lieutenant Hill was a stickler for protocol, and newbies that thought she was joking when she requested forms in triplicate often got a nasty chewing out.

The rest of Steve’s shift passed quietly, if in a somewhat boring manner. Sam left around ten, Jessica shortly after, but Steve wasn’t quite finished with his work and decided to stay. It wasn’t like he had plans, he reflected as he turned the page. Once again he lost himself in the comforting monotony of his paperwork, until a weight settled on his desk. Steve looked up in surprise to see Corporal Peter Quill perched on his desk, wearing his usual cocksure grin.

“Hey, Rogers,” he greeted. “We just caught the guy on your triple homicide. Some jogger saw him sleeping on a bench and called it in, turns out he literally had blood on his hands. How amazing is that?”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Is he in holding?”

“Yeah, Rumlow just finished pulling the evidence off him.” Peter hopped off Steve’s desk triumphantly, nearly falling on his face in the process. “See you around, Detective.”

“Likewise,” Steve called after the leaving officer. Rolling his eyes at Peter’s antics, Steve meandered down to where the holding cells were, stopping by the lab to review the evidence. Natasha, Tony, and Bruce were hard at work consolidating what they knew, various plastic bags spread out on their desks. Noticing a large one, Steve walked over and examined it. The bag contained a prosthetic arm, with a cup meant to hold a stump, a sophisticated-looking joint and a pincer construct at the end in place of a hand.

“Don’t touch that,” Tony said, not taking his eyes off his computer.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.” Steve snorted. “And it’s in exactly the position I want it. Check it out.” The mustachioed man pulled up a series of pictures from the crime scene and put them on a large monitor for Steve to see.

“The bruising matches the pincer almost exactly if you hold it at this angle,” Tony pointed out, holding up the mechanical arm alongside the screen. “I was gonna guess some sort of pliers, but this matches perfectly.”

Steve nodded. “Does it have the kind of strength to cause this damage?”

“On its own? Probably.” Tony indicated the small motor along the elbow joint. “This is pretty high-tech for a bum. I’m not even sure this sort of prosthetic is available on the market.”

“It’s controlled by neural impulses,” Bruce added as the screen reflected off his glasses. “Very cutting-edge. It’s really quite impressive.”

“Impressive or not, it’s most likely our murder weapon.” Natasha looked up from her microscope. “Unfortunately, that’s the only thing we know about our killer. His fingerprints didn’t show up on the database, and DNA’s still processing. Zemo said he was going to talk with him, but I figured you’d want the first crack.”

Steve nodded. “Thanks, Natasha. I’ll check it out, then I’m out of here.”

The three CSIs didn’t bother to watch Steve leave the lab, completely intent on processing the evidence. As the detective made his way down to the holding cells, he ignored the general chaos that was a natural consequence of various drunks, drug addicts, and other unsavory types crammed together in an overnight cell. He stopped at the desk area, emptying his pockets.

“The triple homicide, where is he?” he asked the man sitting at the desk.

“Last one on the left,” the man grunted, taking Steve’s belongings in their small tray. “He’s a quiet one - hasn’t said a word.”

Steve paced down the corridor, ignoring the shouts and jeers that accompanied him. He stopped in front of the cell, where a man was huddled on the metal bed.

“Detective Steve Rogers,” Steve said. “I need you to step towards the door, so you can be taken for questioning.” The man didn’t respond, and Steve rapped on the bars. “Hey!”

Slowly, the man raised his head. He was dressed in a ragged jacket, his remaining arm wrapped across his chest like he was literally holding himself together. Blue eyes looked out from underneath a long curtain of dirty brown hair, boring straight through Steve and into the wall. Steve gasped, pulling away from the bars in shock. Even after thirteen years, disfigured and disheveled, he would recognize Bucky anywhere.

 

~~~

 

_“Stevie, you can’t do this to me!” Bucky was struggling valiantly not to cry, high school bravado wrestling with heartfelt pain. “C’mon, we’ve been best friends since we were in diapers, you can’t just go and drop shit like this on me!”_

_“But it’s true.” Steve had already lost his battle, tears streaking his thin face. “I - I just wanted to tell you, before you went to college.”_

_“Dammit, Steve!” snarled Bucky, hopping off the log he was perched on and turning in an angry circle. “You know that I’ll always look out for you. You’re like my little brother. But I can’t do this. I’m not gay.”_

_“I know. And I never expected you to-”_

_“And yet, here we are!” Bucky spread his arms sarcastically._

_“Buck, please,” Steve begged. “Don’t make this any harder for me.”_

_“Right, because this is hard for you.” Steve wilted, shoulders slumping in on himself. “Y’know what? I need some time to think.” Bucky stalked off back towards his house, leaving his friend sitting by himself. “Don’t talk to me for a while.”_

_Steve watched Bucky leave, tears clouding his vision as he questioned whether he had made the right choice._

_The next day, when the house phone rang, Steve practically lunged for it._

_“Hello?” He asked cautiously. “It’s Steve.”_

_“Steve,” Rebecca’s voice said breathlessly. “It’s Bucky, he’s gone, he - he left a note saying he was joining the a-army, and - oh Steve, I don’t know what to do!”_

_Steve had been punched in the gut before, but the blow that shook him now was worse than what any bully could have given him. He sank to the ground, the phone dropping from his nerveless fingers to swing suspended from its cord. Shoulders shaking with gasping sobs, Steve curled in around himself, fear and panic tightening his chest. He didn’t even feel his mother’s hand on his shoulder until she slowly guided him to the couch, wrapping her arms around him and letting him pour out his grief._

_He didn’t hear from Bucky for thirteen years._


	2. Reunion

“Buck,” Steve whispered, gripping the bars on the holding cell. “It’s me, Steve. It’s Stevie.”

Bucky’s gaze focused from its thousand-yard stare to land on Steve’s face, a faint glimmer of recognition sparking in his eyes. “Little Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve let out a breathless chuckle. “Guess I grew some, huh?”

“You were always so tiny,” Bucky said slowly. “I thought I was gonna snap you in half by accident sometimes.”

Steve nodded. “That’s right, Buck.” He smiled fondly at the memory, then took a deep breath. “Where were you?”

Immediately, Bucky’s eyes unfocused, snapping back to a point far behind Steve. “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Some hole in the ground.”

“Buck, are you OK?” Steve asked, anxiety ripping through his relief as he truly saw what a mess his friend had become. “Are you sick? Why were you sleeping on a park bench?”

Bucky shrugged listlessly, starting to fold back up into a ball. “I was tired.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to stay?”

“Don’t think so.”

Steve hung his head, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Across the hallway, some obnoxious drunk shouted about his rights. Bucky immediately snapped upright, pressing himself into the corner of the cell. He froze, eyes going from unfocused to glassy. _PTSD_ , Steve realized. _Of course_.

“Bucky? Hey, Buck, I need you to listen to me,” he said, stretching a hand through the bars towards where Bucky sat. “Bucky, listen to my voice. It’s ok. You’re safe here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Craning his neck, he looked over to where the guard was sitting, and frantically gestured for him to come over. Bucky did not stir from his trance, not even when the guard jogged over and began to unlock the cell.

Steve squeezed through the gap as quickly as he could, standing before Bucky. He extended his hands before pulling them back, hovering as he struggled to remember how to help with flashbacks. Sam had given him a crash course in case he ever got triggered in the field, but he hadn’t had an attack in a very long time.

“Buck, you’re not where you think you are,” Steve said, trying to erase the worry from his voice. “You’re in Brooklyn, at the police station. I’m with you. Steve is with you.” Bucky’s eyes remained glassy, but they flicked over to Steve, his breath still coming in heaving gasps.

“I need you to breathe slowly. C’mon, let’s breathe together. Like you used to do when I had an asthma attack, remember?” Steve demonstrated, slowly breathing in through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Eyes still locked on Steve, Bucky struggled to follow the detective’s example, the breath whooshing out of his mouth. Eventually, his panicked wheezing slowed, but Bucky still remained huddled in the corner.

“OK?” Bucky nodded shakily, pulling his jacket closer around himself. Steve pulled backwards, but before he could exit the cell, Bucky’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Don’t go,” the veteran begged, his fingers vise-tight around Steve.

“Buck, I gotta,” Steve replied, trying to pull his hand out of Bucky’s. “You’re - you’re in jail. You killed people. I can’t stay in here.”

Bucky shook his head. “No I didn’t,” he said staunchly. “I was asleep.”

“Can you prove it?”

Bucky paused, before shaking his head again.

“Then you have to stay here.” Steve kept his voice gentle, but tried to be firm. “Look, I’ll set up a chair outside, alright?”

Reluctantly, Bucky let Steve’s wrist go, but followed his movement outside the cell door with wary eyes. Dragging a plastic chair across the floor, Steve set it against the opposite wall, then sat down with a hard sigh. Bucky tucked his chin over his arm, leaning against the cell wall as he sat on his cot, eyes unfocused once more. Steve ran his hands over his face, as if he could hide himself from the man that sat behind bars. Even with his eyes closed, Steve could feel Bucky’s thousand-yard stare drilling through him like it could explain thirteen years without a word. Exhausted by the night’s investigation and the painful reunion, Steve let his head loll against the painted wall, dropping into a fitful slumber.

 

~~~

 

When Steve woke up a few hours later, Bucky’s cell was empty. Presumably, he had been taken for questioning, so Steve made his way up to the interrogation room. Sam was already standing in front of the one-way glass, watching as Zemo sat down in front of Bucky. The veteran had his arm cuffed to the table, the other handcuff looped around the chain to compensate for the lack of his other limb.

“His name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve said quietly. “Thirty-two, joined the army when he was eighteen. No idea how long he’s been back stateside.”

Sam looked at Steve questioningly, but didn’t press him further. Meanwhile, Zemo leaned forward, placing a file on the table between himself and Bucky.

“My name is Helmut Zemo,” he said, voice surprisingly gentle despite the bite of a fading Eastern European accent. “I’m a forensic psychologist. Do you know what that means?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“It means that I try to understand why people commit crimes,” Zemo continued, unruffled by Bucky’s lack of response. Steve had seen Zemo stare down raging psychopaths without flinching, so he was hardly surprised. “More specifically, why you murdered three people.”

“I didn’t kill them.” Bucky’s voice was rough. “I didn’t hurt anyone. I don’t hurt people anymore.”

“Anymore?” Zemo made a few notes on his notepad before looking back up at Bucky. “Did you used to hurt people?”

Bucky clamped his mouth shut, then glanced at the one way mirror. “I want to see Steve,” he said. “Steve knows I didn’t kill them.”

“Do you mean Detective Rogers?” Bucky nodded. “I’m sorry, but he’s currently busy. If he is unoccupied later today, perhaps you can speak with him.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair as far as he could with his hand cuffed, eyes flitting nervously to the exit. Zemo noticed his glance.

“Are you nervous?” He asked. “Claustrophobic, perhaps?”

“I don’t like the cuffs,” Bucky replied, rattling his manacles. “I don’t like it here. I don’t know the way out.”

Zemo nodded. “I see,” he said understandingly. “You feel trapped.” He leaned forward across the file. “Tell me, how did you come to have only one arm? Were you born without it, or did you lose it? Were you in the war?”

Bucky’s hand began to shake, and he clenched it into a fist. Steve moved towards the door to the interrogation room, but Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, and Steve stopped.

“Zemo,” he muttered warningly, but the psychologist ignored the voice in his earpiece.

“War,” Bucky gritted out. Again, Zemo merely nodded.

“Tell me, are you familiar with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?” Behind his reading glasses, Zemo’s eyes were almost reptilian. “Have you ever experienced irrational impulses or feelings? Delusions, perhaps?”

“Zemo, that’s enough,” Steve said forcefully into his walkie-talkie. “You’ve got what you need.” Zemo slipped a glare at the one-way mirror, but half nodded in acknowledgment.

“I believe that will do for today,” he said, standing up from his chair. “Thank you for your cooperation.” Bucky remained silent, his fist still clenched at he stared at the metal table. Only once Zemo had left did he move, repeatedly slamming his fist against the table. It started out methodical, but the rhythm quickly decayed until Bucky was practically thrashing against his cuffs. Steve and Sam bolted into the interrogation room, Sam placing his weight on Bucky’s arm while Steve grabbed Bucky in a rough hold.

“Calm down, Buck,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above Bucky’s own screaming. “He’s gone!”

“Get him under control, Steve!” A vessel was starting to bulge in Sam’s forehead from the effort of holding the flailing man down. Steve placed his elbow around Bucky’s neck, squeezing him into a chokehold. The veteran continued to struggle, but with his only arm still being held by Sam, the hold began to take effect. Wheezing slightly, Bucky’s head lolled against Steve’s shoulder, and he slipped into near-unconsciousness. Sam stood up from where he had been crouching, breathing hard. However, Steve did not let go, still cradling Bucky against his chest.

“Steve,” Sam said quietly. “He has to be transferred to max. We can’t handle him here.”

Every instinct of Steve’s screamed not to let Bucky out of his sight, to never let him go again, but he knew that Sam was right. Had any other person been in his arms instead of Bucky, he’d be the one taking them over to maximum security himself. But like always, Bucky was different. With a heavy sigh, he let Bucky drop back into the chair, his expression carefully composed. Steve looked up at Sam, blue eyes turning steely grey with resolve.

“We’ve got work to do, partner.”


	3. The Search Begins

“Tell me about our vics,” Steve said, seated in a wheeled chair in the forensics lab. “Anything you know, any connections.”

Natasha nodded wordlessly, swiping on her tablet to bring up three pictures on the monitor.

“First victim, Elektra Natchios. Long list of priors, spent a few years in juvie. Aggravated assault, mostly.” Steve examined the frankly impressive list of crimes with a raised eyebrow.

“Some of these guys ended up being put away,” he noted. “Think she was some sort of vigilante?”

“It’s possible.” Natasha shrugged. “Second victim, Zebediah Kilgrave - nasty piece of work.”

The man onscreen had a square jaw and well-styled hair, but there was something deranged in his eyes that unnerved Steve. When he saw the man’s prior convictions, his eyes widened.

“This is the guy that was stalking Jones?” Things had gotten so bad, Jessica had actually left the force for six months to recuperate from her ordeal. Steve had never seen anything rattle the normally tough detective like her obsessive ex. With a bit of “encouragement” from Frank and Luke, he’d finally obeyed the restraining order, and while Steve didn’t quite agree with their methods, they had been extremely effective.

Natasha made a face. “Bastard got what was coming to him. Third victim, Jasper Sitwell - one of our own. IT analyst for the NYPD, mostly works upstate.” The bespectacled man looked innocuous compared to the other two, like somebody’s favorite accountant.

“So we’ve got a cop killer? He doesn’t fit with the other two.” Steve’s brow furrowed.

“My guess? Our perp went after Kilgrave and Natchios, then killed Sitwell when he witnessed the murders.” Natasha pulled up a few chemical reports. “Banner said it’s iffy, but they all died within about an hour of each other. Nobody saw the murders, so we can’t know for sure.”

“You don’t think Bucky did it.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Something about the 911 call seems fishy,” Natasha said slowly. “It came in only twenty minutes after Banner’s pegged time of death, a good half a mile away from the scene. According to Quill, Barnes really was asleep on the bench. Even for ex-army, twenty minutes to walk that far and fall asleep seems off.”

Steve leaned his head on his hand, staring thoughtfully at the three victims on the monitor. Meanwhile, Natasha sorted through a few files idly.

“So this is Bucky?” She asked quietly, looking up at Steve.

“Yeah.” The word came out hoarse, and Steve cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s Bucky.”

“I’m sorry.” Natasha wasn’t the kind of person to pat you on the back in sympathy, Steve knew, but he could still feel the waves of comfort radiating off her. “You know, they’ll pull you off the case if they find out you two have history.”

“You’re right,” Steve replied, hanging his head.

“We could put Sif Dama on the case. She’s a good detective, Steve, you know she’d take care of Bucky.”

“He’s got PTSD, Nat. Zemo thinks he’s delusional. Bucky doesn’t need taking care of; Bucky needs _me_.”

Natasha examined Steve for a long moment, before nodding slightly. “You know,” she said, staring at the board in front of her, “when Clint first proposed to me, I said no because I didn’t want to be a burden. I thought with all the stuff that I see on a daily basis, that I would drag him into it too, and he wouldn’t be the guy that I loved any more.” She placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder, turning him to look her in the eyes.

“Steve Rogers, lugging around your emotional baggage like it’s your damn cross does nobody any favors, least of all Bucky. You don’t have to do these things alone - other people are stronger than you think. Sam and I will always have your back first and foremost, and the rest of the force is right behind you.” Natasha paused. “Except Rumlow and his buddies, but they’re dicks.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said with a faint smile, because he knew that Natasha really was right. Without her, he would have probably burned himself out years ago. Sighing, Steve stood up from his chair and collected a few files.

“I’m gonna take a look over these,” he said. “Let me know if forensics gets any more info.”

Natasha nodded, scooting back towards her desk where a series of slides were ready to be prepped. Meanwhile, Steve made his way back towards his desk. Sam was seated opposite to him as usual, his red-striped motorcycle jacket slung over the back of his chair. He picked up a file with a single finger and thumb, wrinkling his nose with distaste.

“Rumlow gave me this,” he said. “Think it’s booby-trapped?”

“Nah, Quill said Rumlow processed Bucky for forensics.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Rumlow? Why’s he being such a decent, responsible human being all of a sudden?”

“I dunno, maybe he has a crush on May.” Melinda usually handled criminal processing, preferring the desk job to field work. However, Steve had seen her take down a resisting mugger with a move that he was pretty sure was from MMA, so he figured she was more than capable of taking in Bucky.

“Oh, gross.” Sam fake-gagged, before flipping open the file and starting to read it. Halfway through, he paused. “Hey Steve? When you went down to see Barnes in holding, did they take his jacket?”

“No,” Steve replied, brows furrowed. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“It says in here that they took it as evidence, for blood spatter analysis.” Sam slapped the file on Steve’s desk, flipping it around. “Here, take a look.”

True to Sam’s word, among the list of evidence was a brown jacket, one that he clearly remembered Bucky being huddled in when he’d been in the holding cell.

“Huh.” Steve scowled. “Wonder why?”

“Rumlow probably forgot,” Sam replied with a shrug. “Probably too busy making googoo eyes at May.”

“Ugh, don’t give me that image,” Steve groaned. “That’s the last thing I need right now.”

“Ask the other Odinson. He’s probably down there, lurking in the lab like he always does.”

With a grunt, Steve hauled himself out of his chair, grabbing the file on his way out. Winding his way through the forensics lab and nearly running into Fitz, he eventually made his way to Loki’s cubicle. The black-haired man was typing away at his computer, a pile of papers next to his desk.

“What?” he asked flatly, looking up as Steve entered. “As you can undoubtedly see, I’m busy.”

Steve waved the file at Loki. “The triple homicide. Rumlow said he took a piece of clothing as evidence, when he obviously didn’t. You know why?”

“How would I know what goes on in that man’s pathetic excuse for a brain?” Loki replied snarkily.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “How about where the jacket is now, do you know that?”

“Still on its wearer, I would assume. That, or in his personal belongings if he’s already been transferred.”

 _Shit_. Steve’s stomach plummeted. He’d been so caught up in examining the evidence that he’d missed Bucky’s transfer from their holding cells to Riker’s Island. Bucky would be held there until trial, and if he was found guilty, transferred to a prison upstate.

“Something the matter, Detective?” Loki asked innocently. Steve glared at him as he turned on his heel to exit, striding out of the forensics lab and this time nearly running into Simmons. He jogged up the stairs, tapping his knuckles on Sam’s desk.

“We gotta go to Riker’s, partner,” Steve said, double-checking that his weapon and badge were with him. “We might have something.”

Sam nodded, slinging his coat over his shoulder as he trotted after Steve.

 

~~~

 

“So you’re telling me that you don’t have a prisoner’s personal belongings, some of which contain potential evidence,” Sam said dangerously, hands flat on the counter. Steve gnawed his lip, glowering at the officer across from him and Sam.

“Nope.” The reply was far too casual for Steve’s liking. “Couldn’t keep them. Health hazard.” Under the fluorescent lights, the woman’s pale scalp shone through buzzed orange hair, and her skin took on an unhealthy blue sheen.

“Listen, Bullard,” Sam growled, pointing a finger at the officer. “I could have you charged with interfering with an investigation.”

“Then you’ll have to explain why your boys didn’t process the evidence correctly,” Bullard returned coolly. “Have fun with that.” Silver-painted nails drummed methodically on the counter, the beat crawling into Steve’s ears and constricting his brain. Brown eyes bored into cold blue as Sam stared down Bullard, a stalemate quickly approaching.

“Fine.” Shooting a last look at the officer, Sam stalked away from the desk, Steve following.

“I can’t believe this,” Steve muttered as they strode down the corridor. “First it gets misfiled, and now it’s supposedly destroyed? Something’s off, Sam.”

“Excuse me?” A voice called down the corridor. “Detectives?”

Sam and Steve turned to see who had hailed them, spotting a slim young man with red-tinted sunglasses striding down the corridor, tapping a cane in front of him. Behind him was a slightly pudgier man with long hair, deep in conversation with another officer.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” the man said with an apologetic grimace. “The halls echo a lot.” He stuck his hand forward, which Steve took. It was warm and calloused, not at all what Steve was expecting.

“Matt Murdock. I’m a lawyer, and back there is my partner Foggy Nelson.”

“Steve Rogers,” Steve introduced himself.

“Sam Wilson.”

“Very nice to meet you, detectives,” Matt said. “Now, it sounded like you were having some trouble with evidence. Does your suspect have legal representation?”

“We don’t need glory chasers here.” Sam looked at Matt scornfully. “Now, I’m sure you have other clients here-”

“Detective Wilson, I think you’ll find that we at Nelson and Murdock are extremely selective of our clients.” Matt smiled at Sam, but it was a challenging sort of smile. “We make a point to choose clients that the rest of the world believes to be easy targets. We like the challenge. And it sounds to me that you two might have quite the challenge on your hands.”

Steve and Sam shared a glance, Sam half-shrugging in a _what the hell_ gesture.

“Alright, Mr. Murdock,” Steve said. “What else can you offer to make us pick you over the state-appointed attorneys?”

“We’re hotter,” Foggy called over his shoulder. Sam couldn’t help but giggle, stifling a snort with his hands as Steve raised his eyebrows.

“That, and we actually have an incentive to keep your client out of jail,” added Matt.

“Which is?”

“...We need a new client,” the lawyer admitted sheepishly. “Our latest prospect just turned us down.”

“It’s not because we’re bad lawyers,” Foggy added, jogging over to where the others were congregated. “We’re just a relatively new practice.”

“With a one-hundred percent success rate.”

Sam squinted at the pair of lawyers. “How many clients have you had?”

“...Three.” Matt shrugged. “Like Foggy said, we’re relatively new.”

“Hm.” Steve considered the two. Sam was generally the better judge of character, but Steve had always been able to tell when a person had something special. Some called it grit, others heart, still others gumption. All Steve knew was that these two men had it in spades.

“Alright,” he said. “Consider yourselves hired.”

Matt’s face broke into a sunny grin. “Thank you, detectives,” he said happily, extending his hand for Steve and Sam to shake. “You won’t regret this, I promise.” He passed them a business card, lettered neatly in both red font and Braille. “Please call us whenever is convenient.”

Steve pocketed the card, nodding at Foggy as he turned on his heel to leave. Sam followed, casting a last glance at the lawyers, who were conducting an elaborate high-five/fist-bump combo. How they managed to pull that off when Matt was blind, Sam wasn’t entirely sure.

 

~~~

 

Captain Fury sighed, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. Steve fought the urge to shift on his feet, like a schoolboy called into the principal’s office.

“And _why_ did you not consult me before deciding to hire attorneys that aren’t from Landman and Zack?” He asked, fixing Steve and Sam with a one-eyed glare.

“They were at Riker’s the same time we were,” Sam offered. “And Landman and Zack are soulless drones that have zero interest in our cases.”

Steve nodded in agreement, suppressing a smile. The captain turned the business card over in his fingers, sighing again.

“Look,” he said finally. “NYPD wants this case wrapped up as quickly as possible. Triple homicide looks bad, crazy war vet looks bad - no offense, Wilson.” Sam wrinkled his nose slightly, but nodded in acceptance of Fury’s half-apology. “My point is, this needs to be an open-and-shut case, and Landman and Zack can assure that. We don’t know enough about these guys to say they won’t open the mother of all worm cans on us.”

“I thought you had principles, Captain,” Steve protested. “That our job was supposed to uphold justice, not feed the media what they want.”

Fury leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “I know, Rogers,” he replied. “But I’m caught between a rock and a hard place here.” He placed his hands on the desk, expression softening.

“Look,” he added. “See if you can get these guys to pull an insanity plea. There’s a good facility upstate, one that treats its patients well. I can get him transferred there. He’ll get the help he needs.”

Steve shook his head adamantly. “There’s something going on here, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

“Don’t make me take your badge,” Fury warned, brandishing a finger at Steve threateningly.

“I thought they only did that in the movies,” protested Sam.

“Quiet, Wilson.”

“Yessir. Steve, if you slam your badge on the table and say ‘I quit’, I swear to God that-”

“They won’t be any trouble, sir,” Steve said quietly. “I’ll make sure of it myself. Sergeant Hill has all the paperwork ready. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Steve left the Captain’s office, Sam standing at a loss for words as Fury raised an eyebrow.

“I’d better go after him, make sure he’s alright,” Sam said, making his way towards the door.

“You do that, Wilson.”

Shutting the door, Sam strode after Steve, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“You better not be going all loose cannon on me,” he warned, “because that makes me the black buddy cop that gets shot in the final fight scene, and I’m not in the mood for another bullet hole. So you better tell me what the _hell_ is going on with you, Steve, or so help me I’ll take up the Captain’s order.”

Steve sighed heavily, dragging his hands over his face. “I can’t risk the Captain finding out Bucky and I have history,” he said under his breath, eyes darting around the room. “I think there’s somebody tampering with the evidence, Sam. Think about it - it’s perfect. _Too_ perfect.”

“Nobody ever finds a murderer with blood on their hands any more,” Sam muttered, nodding. “It’s too cliché. And now the jacket’s gone. Bucky’s an easy target to pin this on; an insanity plea just makes this easier.”

“Something’s definitely off about this,” Steve breathed. “And we’ve gotta find out before Bucky gets imprisoned, probably for life.”

Sam’s eyes were hard with resolve. “Then it’s a good thing we’re detectives.”


	4. Pulling Back the Curtains

Matt’s face was carefully expressionless as he skimmed his fingers over the Braille report, while Foggy read his own copy next to him.

“We’ve also got a transcript of Zemo’s questioning,” Steve offered, placing a flash drive on the table. Foggy nodded and plugged it into his battered-looking laptop. Matt cocked his head slightly as he listened, nodding thoughtfully.

“He’s leading the suspect,” he remarked. “Trying to provoke him. We can use that.”

“You said that Barnes was found with blood on him?” Foggy gnawed at his lip. “I thought the cause of death was strangulation.”

“One of the victims might have coughed up blood,” Sam replied. “We don’t have any spatter evidence though - that’s what was tampered with.”

“Any reason to think that this Quill guy would’ve messed with it?” asked Foggy, flicking through his file.

Steve shook his head. “Nope - he’s too new. Subterfuge isn’t really his thing.”

“What about the others in the chain of evidence? Surely it’s documented?”

“Yeah.” Sam pulled out a list he had copied from one of Natasha’s folders. “Brock Rumlow - maybe he had something to do with it. He processed the evidence when Barnes was taken in.”

Matt hummed thoughtfully. “I’m guessing you’re not fans of his.”

“He’s a jerk on his good days,” Steve remarked. “He’s been suspended before for excessive violence, I wouldn’t put it past him to tamper with evidence.”

“But does he have a motivation?” Foggy’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a lieutenant, right? Does this line him up for a promotion?”

“Don’t think so,” Sam replied with a frown. “Even if it did, he’s not the type to leave his buddies for glory.”

Matt leaned across the table. “Here’s what the prosecution’s gonna do,” he started. “They’re going to paint Barnes as a PTSD-crazed vigilante, willing to murder a former cop to keep his rampage quiet. They’ll call him vicious, unhinged, delusional - it won’t be pretty. Of course, it’s not the truth.”

“Now, the prosecutor for this case is T’Challa King,” Foggy added. “He’s incredibly strict about justice - very lawful good. The evidence is not in our favor, but if we bring up the fact that evidence was tampered with, he’ll accept a mistrial without a fight. Of course -”

“We’ll be shooting ourselves in the foot by admitting we made a mistake.” Steve frowned, considering his options. “The entire NYPD will be questioned, and the prosecution can easily paint us as corrupt.”

“Not to mention he’ll start digging on you two.” Matt turned his head towards Steve. “Tell me, are there any skeletons in your closets that we need to know about?”

Sam shook his head. “Two tours as a pararescue, came home and decided to stop sitting on my ass and do something useful. Parents live out in New Jersey, sister in Queens.” Foggy nodded, scribbling down a few notes.

Steve hesitated briefly, before clearing his throat. “Bucky and I grew up together,” he said, gaze falling to the table in front of him. “I was the last person he talked to before he ran away and joined the army.”

“I see.” This bit of information didn’t seem to faze Matt. “And nobody’s had you removed from this case?”

“No. I haven’t told anyone else.”

“Well, then it seems we have our work cut out for us.” Matt closed his file, grabbing his cane as he stood up. “Thank you for your time, detectives. We’ll let you know when we’ve got a strategy for you.” He placed his hand on Foggy’s offered elbow, and the two lawyers made their way out of the room.

Sam leaned back in his chair. “I don’t like this, Steve. Something smells fishy, and it’s not just Rumlow.”

“You think Bullard’s in on it too?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, but what is _it_?” Sam made air quotes around the word with his fingers. “Are we dealing with something big here? Why pin three murders on Barnes?”

Steve shrugged. “He’s an easy target. Homeless, PTSD - anything he says can be put off as a delusion.”

“You believe him, don’t you.” Sam leaned his knees on his elbows, staring at Steve. “You really don’t think he did it.”

“I know Bucky. He wouldn’t do this.”

“Steve,” Sam said gently. “It’s been thirteen years, you said so yourself. Maybe he’s changed. The army does weird things to people, and we don’t know what’s happened to him. I’m not saying he did it, I’m just saying he might not be the guy you remember.”

“But he knew me.” Even to Steve’s own ears, the protest sounded plaintive. “He recognized me.”

“I guess that’s better than nothing.”

 

~~~

 

“Oh God, we are so _screwed_ ,” Foggy groaned. “The evidence is staring us right in the face. We’ll be lucky if we get an insanity plea.” He paced around their tiny office, head in his hands.

Matt shook his head. “Nah, Foggy, something’s going on around here. Call it gut instinct.”

“I call it stale bagels,” scoffed Foggy. “I’m not saying we should jump ship, I’m just saying we’re really, _really_ better off trying to pull an insanity, and maybe this thing won’t scar us for the rest of our careers.”

“What have we got on the victims?”

“Not much that the NYPD doesn’t know,” Foggy sighed ruefully. “A stalker, a vigilante, and an ex-cop. Craziest mix I’ve ever seen.”

“No matter how you slice it, there’s always an odd one out,” mused Matt. “I wonder, could this have been a cover up?”

“Nah, they were all killed within an hour.” Foggy flicked through his file. “If it was a cover up, then somebody was coordinated about it. _Really_ coordinated, like professional-level. Even if he is innocent, we’re gonna have a hard time proving it.”

“Key pieces of evidence don’t just go missing,” Matt protested. “We push for a mistrial, bring up Zemo’s baiting during the questioning, and maybe we can get this case thrown out. Who knows, forensics might have some new information by then.”

Foggy sighed heavily, snapping the file shut. “Ok, we go for the mistrial. But if this tanks our firm, I’m blaming you and your superhearing.” He cracked his knuckles, sitting down at his laptop. “So, how do we want to open?”

 

~~~

 

Steve’s phone buzzed, rousing him from the half-stupor he had fallen into while reading over Bucky’s file. Natasha had texted him, saying only _Forensics. Now_. He immediately made his way down, where Natasha and Fitz were standing over the remains of a phone.

“This is Sitwell’s phone,” Natasha explained. “It got smashed in the attack, but Fitz was able to salvage the hard drive. And get this: Sitwell made a call right before his estimated time of death.”

“Who’s it to?” Steve leaned on the table, not wanting to miss a word.

“NYPD front desk,” Fitz said triumphantly. “Now, the audio from the phone is no good, but the desk recorded the call, so we still have a copy.” He clicked a file on his computer, bringing up the recording.

“ _New York Police Department, how may I help you_?” The receptionist asked over the speakers.

A few heavy breaths sounded. “ _It’s Sitwell,_ ” a voice finally said. “ _Tell Pierce that-_ ”

“ _I’m sorry, could you please restate your name_?”

“ _Tell Pierce that I’m in trouble_ ,” Sitwell panted. “ _He’s here_.”

“ _Who’s here? Are you alright? Sir_?” But Sitwell had hung up, leaving the receptionist asking questions to the air.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Pierce? As in the commissioner?”

“But why would he want to call Commissioner Pierce?” Fitz asked. “Especially if he was in danger, why didn’t he call 9-1-1?”

“And who is ‘he’?” Natasha stared thoughtfully at the file, as if it could give up its secrets through sheer intimidation. Steve hummed, leaning back from the table and copying the file onto an empty flash drive.

“Thanks, Fitz,” he said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“Absolutely, sir.” Fitz practically glowed with pride as Steve left. He needed a chat with the commissioner.

 

~~~

 

“Of course I knew Sitwell,” Pierce said with a frown. “We met on a case, and we kept in contact when he started dating my niece.” His once-handsome face was now lined and his hair streaked with grey, but his eyes were still incredibly sharp as they met Steve’s. “I’m going to his funeral next Sunday.”

“Did you know he attempted to call you the night he was killed?” Steve was unrelenting.

“Yes, the receptionist told me the next morning. Why he tried to reach me, I have no idea.”

Steve watched his superior closely. “And this doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Yes, it does bother me. Sitwell was my friend, and somebody killed him.” Pierce turned away from Steve, settling back behind his desk.

“Did you listen to the recording of the call?” Steve tried. “Sitwell said somebody was after him, but not who. Do you know if he had any enemies?”

Pierce shook his head. “None that I was aware of. I would assume this unknown person is the man we currently have in custody.”

“I’ll check the arrest records, see if anyone that Sitwell helped put away was getting released,” Steve said, eyeing the commissioner.

“Have faith, Detective,” Pierce offered. “Justice will be served.”

“I hope so,” Steve replied, closing the office door as he left. _First the missing evidence, and now the commissioner is acting odd_ , he mused. _What does Bucky have to do with this_? Pierce’s answers all sounded legitimate on the surface, but there was something about his implacable calmness that activated Steve’s instincts. Pierce knew more than he was letting on, but until he had a way to back it up, there was nothing more the detective could do. Mind still churning, he made his way back down to Forensics.

“Stark,” he said. “You positive that nothing else could’ve made the bruises on the victim’s necks?”

“Yeah,” Tony answered suspiciously, irritated at Steve’s insinuation that he was wrong. “Look at the dimensions. They match perfectly.”

“Wouldn’t the bruising extend around the area?” Steve asked. “Shouldn’t the bruise be bigger than the actual tool?”

Bruce hummed in consideration, eyes flicking between the two men. “Given the premortem status of the injury, it’s entirely possible that the blood would pool in a larger area, yes.”

“So there’s a possibility the prosthetic didn’t do this.” A small flame of hope flickered in Steve’s gut, even as Tony looked at him sulkily. “But then what did?”

“Pliers or a clamp,” Tony said immediately. “Assuming Banner is right, then our search isn’t just limited to rectangular bruising any more. It could be any sort of C-clamp, but you’d have some trouble killing somebody with that.” He flicked through the Home Depot website, pulling up a few images of the clamp he was talking about. “You’d need time to screw it onto their neck, create the pressure needed to kill them,” he explained.

“Banner, was there any other kind of trauma on the bodies?”

Bruce frowned, pulling out his own files. “There were some contusions on the back of the head -  the general consensus is the victims were knocked out, and then strangled.”

“Were they hit hard enough to kill them?”

“Could have been,” Bruce shrugged. “Even if they were, the killer wanted to make sure he finished the job.”

“So somebody could have knocked them out, then put the clamp around their necks to kill them and frame Bu - Barnes?” Steve stammered over Bucky’s name, barely remembering that he wasn’t supposed to know Bucky as well as he did.

“Theoretically,” Tony said. “But you’d have to know the size of the prosthetic in advance, as well as where Barnes was the night of the murder. If it’s a setup, it’s ridiculously well-planned.”

Steve gnawed at his lip. “Yeah, it is. Thanks, Tony.” He left the forensics lab, leaving Tony and Bruce looking at each other confusedly.

“You really think somebody framed Barnes?” Bruce murmured.

Tony stared at the pictures thoughtfully. “I’m gonna run to Home Depot. I need to run some tests.”


	5. Confession

Steve pulled the plastic chair towards the partition, unhooking the telephone from its rest. Across from him, Bucky mirrored the gesture, smiling ruefully.

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hey, Buck.” Steve could feel his own faint smile stretching his lips. “How are you doing?”

Bucky shrugged. “Better, I guess. They’ve got me on some meds. It makes me feel kind of foggy, but at least I’m sleeping better.” Even though Steve could hear the tiredness in Bucky’s voice, he sounded much more lucid than he had in the holding cell.

“And they’re treating you ok? You’re not in solitary or anything?” Worry crept into Steve’s voice like a twilight shadow.

“Nope. People stay away from me, mostly.” Bucky held the phone between his ear and shoulder, using his hand to push his hair back. It had been trimmed back from the wild mess it had been, but it was still longer than Steve remembered. He nodded, a question curled up in his mind like a snake.

“Buck,” he asked hesitantly. “When you got back, why didn’t you call? You know you could’ve crashed with me.”

Bucky’s eyebrows drew together, and his gaze flicked down to the table. “Before I left, when we - when we argued, I figured you were mad at me. I was mad at you too.”

Steve’s heart dropped. He knew that sooner or later, their last conversation would have to come up, but with everything that was currently at stake, the rift it had caused felt more painful than ever.

“But then I realized that maybe I deserved you being mad at me,” Bucky continued. “And I thought - maybe it was my fault in the first place. I shouldn’t have treated you like that, Stevie.”

“It’s ok, Buck,” Steve soothed. “You couldn’t have known. It was wrong of me to spring that on you, I should’ve waited - ”

Bucky shook his head defiantly. “No. I had thirteen years to think about it. And I’m sorry, Steve, I really am.”

“I’m sorry too, Buck,” Steve whispered. “I’m sorry you got into this mess. But I’m gonna get you out, I promise.”

“Stick a needle?”

Steve smiled. “Stick a needle,” he replied, memories of childhood promises dancing around him like dust in a sunbeam.

“I missed you, Steve.”

“I missed you too, Buck.”

 

~~~

 

“Don’t worry, дорогой мой,” Natasha murmured, seated beside Steve. She looked very smart in a deep red blouse and black blazer, legs casually crossed in front of her. “No big decisions will be made today.”

Steve fiddled with his own collar, unaccustomed to wearing a tie. He preferred to keep his shirt collars open - the slight pressure against his throat reminded him of the asthma attacks he’d had as a child. He couldn’t deny his own nervousness, watching the backs of Matt and Foggy’s heads as they made last-minute preparations. The preliminary hearing had already passed without much fuss, and Bucky had refused a plea deal on Matt and Foggy’s advice.

“The missing jacket is our ace in the hole,” Foggy had explained. “Since the evidence was tampered with, we can get it thrown out before the case even starts. Without it, T’Challa’s argument won’t be half as convincing.”

“Not to mention this new information from forensics,” added Matt. “If our motion fails, then we have a backup plan to prove your innocence.”

“Will it be enough?” Sam’s eyes were dark.

“All we need to do is split the jury. If they can’t reach a guilty verdict unanimously, then it’s a mistrial, and the worst they can do is fine him for vagrancy.”

“And if we lose?”

“Then James goes to maximum security prison for the rest of his life,” Matt said solemnly. “He’ll be in and out of the psychological ward until he’s so drugged up he won’t be able to remember his own name. It’s not what he deserves, and it’s not what we want for him.” He turned to face Steve directly. “It’s not what any of us want for him.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve agreed. “So let’s do our damndest to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

“Your Honor, we would like to request a motion to dismiss evidence,” Matt said, interrupting Steve’s flashback.

“On what grounds?” The judge asked.

“Item 48, a jacket that the defendant was wearing at the time of his arrest. Despite claims that is was collected as evidence, the defendant was still wearing at the time of his transfer, and it was destroyed due to being a health hazard.”

The judge considered, her eyes flitting between Matt and T’Challa.

“And why is this the case?”

“We believe it was clerical error,” Matt said smoothly, ignoring Foggy’s sharp nudge to the ribs. “Regardless, we still request the motion be passed.”

Nodding, the judge brought down her gavel. “Very well, the motion is passed. Evidence item 48 is to be struck from the record.” If T’Challa looked disappointed, he gave no sign. Meanwhile, Foggy made a quiet fist pump of victory, only for Matt to elbow him back.

“The prosecution is called upon to give their opening statement,” the judge called. T’Challa stood up, an imposing man dressed in a black suit with a grey shirt. The only indication of informalness was a black cord around his neck, tucked behind his shirt collar. Across from him sat Bucky, his arm chained to his waist and dressed in an orange jumpsuit. His hair was pulled back, and he was clean-shaven, his empty sleeve neatly pinned into a roll underneath his stump.

“Your Honor, members of the jury, three people have been murdered, and their killer has refused to admit his involvement in their deaths,” T’Challa began, voice ringing throughout the courtroom. “Among the dead is a policeman, Jasper Sitwell, taken from this world not in the line of duty but because of the actions of James Barnes. This man is a vigilante, executing his twisted version of justice on the streets of New York, and he should not be allowed to walk free due to the nature of his crimes. His victims’ natures should not excuse his actions - murder is still murder. I urge you to find James Barnes guilty of the murders of Elektra Natchios, Zebediah Kilgrave, and Jasper Sitwell. Thank you; that is all.”

He sat down behind his desk, to the murmurs of the jury.

“This is bad,” Foggy murmured. “Short and brutal.” Matt patted him on the shoulder reassuringly as he stood up, clearing his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he countered, “Before you is a man who has spent nearly thirteen years in the service of his country, fighting to preserve the safety of you and your families. But the world has not been kind to him in return - denying him shelter, a good food source, all necessities that most of us take for granted. James Barnes was simply trying to find a place to sleep for the night when he was wrongly accused of the murder of three people. Because of his vulnerability he was an easy target, and as such has become a scapegoat for a hideous crime. Somebody has framed Mr. Barnes for a crime he did not commit, and we can prove it to you. Our client is not guilty.”

Matt sat back down as a few more whispers bounced around the courtroom. Steve half-nodded in appreciation. The lawyers had shown him a draft of their opening statement, but this version was far better than he had anticipated. They were by no means out of the woods yet, but it was a good start.

The rest of the day blurred together as T’Challa presented his case, supporting his claims with the evidence that had been collected. Large bruises filled the screen in an ugly spray of blue and purple, persisting behind Steve’s eyes even after the lunch break as he rubbed at his eyes. He excused himself to the bathroom, splashing water over his face in an effort to dispel the image. Raising his head, Steve looked at himself in the mirror, gripping the edges of the sink as memories flitted through his brain.

 

~~~

 

_“No, Buck!” Steve shrieked as Bucky hoisted him into the air, squirming in an effort to break free._

_“Three, two, one!” cried Bucky as he swung Steve back and forth, towards the small creek nearby. The pair grappled as Steve shouted again, grabbing Bucky’s shirt collar as the taller boy threw him into the air. Bucky overbalanced, and both of them toppled into the creek. Bucky’s head broke the water first, sputtering in a mock pout as Steve broke the surface. Steve grinned cheekily at him, earning a splash in the face for his mischief. They splashed back and forth, laughing and wrestling with each other._

_Suddenly, Steve found his face inches away from Bucky’s own, cheeks flushed from the exertion of their playing. He breathed in sharply, eyes wide as he stared at Bucky. The taller boy held Steve’s gaze, lips parted as he panted slightly, droplets of water standing out on his face. Whether they remained like that for seconds or minutes, Steve couldn’t say._

_“Come on Stevie,” Bucky said finally, voice slightly strained. “Let’s get you out of here. Don’t want you catching cold, or your mom will kill me.” He slung Steve’s arms over his shoulders, hoisting him in a bridal carry as they emerged from the water._

_“I just might, you jerk,” muttered Steve, but there was no rancor in his voice. He let his head rest against Bucky’s shoulder, the afternoon sun warming him._

_“Sure you will, punk,” Bucky said fondly, and Steve reveled in the vibration of his words through Bucky’s chest. As far as he was concerned, the world had constricted to just the two of them, walking through the woods as the sun’s rays illuminated them._

_Of course, Steve ended up getting a cold anyway and threw snotty tissues at Bucky in mock indignation, but neither of them really minded._

 

~~~

 

A knock sounded on the bathroom door, startling Steve.

“Steve? You planning on coming out, or do I need to come and get you?” Sam’s voice was light, but Steve could hear the underlying current of concern. It was just like Sam to hide any sort of worry with humor, he thought.

“Nah, I’m coming,” he replied, drying off his hands and face. “Give me a second.” He emerged from the bathroom, meeting Sam’s worried gaze.

“Everything OK, Rogers?”

Steve exhaled heavily. “Yeah, just - remembering.”

“You don’t have to be here,” Sam said, placing a comforting hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m sure Bucky would understand.”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna stay anyway.” Steve smiled at Sam, trying to hide his conflict. It didn’t work. Sam stared at him for a moment, but nodded and removed his hand.

“Alright, Steve. Your call.”

“You don’t have to stay either,” added Steve. “I know you’ve got other things you need to do.”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna stay anyway,” Sam echoed back at Steve. “My partner needs me; better reasons don’t exist.”

“You wanna help? Look into any connections between Pierce, Rumlow, and Sitwell.” Steve held Sam’s eye contact with resolve. “I know it feels like I’m sending you away right now to wallow in self-pity, but trust me, this is the only way we can help Buck. Natasha’s in there with me, I’ll be fine - I promise.”

Sam’s face fell slightly, but he nodded. Steve was right - his dismissal stung a bit, but he knew that there was something bigger at work than clearing Bucky’s name.

“OK, Steve,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”


	6. Cat and Mouse

“Do you think that this Rumlow character would be willing to testify?” Matt asked Steve after the first day of the trial had ended. “His questionable methods are a big part of clearing Bucky.”

Steve shook his head. “He’s gonna stick to his story. Not worth it.”

“Anyone else? Bullard, maybe?”

“Too risky,” Foggy cut in.

“Why?” Steve was surprised.

“First rule of lawyering; don’t ask a question you don’t know the answer to.” Foggy wiggled an admonishing finger at Steve, who raised his eyebrows in amusement. “If these people are already known to have lied before, what’s to stop them from changing their stories now?”

“So T’Challa talked to Bucky too,” Steve interpolated, “Otherwise he wouldn’t question him during the case.”

Matt nodded. “That’s right. Of course, James’s alibi isn’t very solid, so he’s going to be suspicious of everything he says in court - as they say, ‘anything you say can and will be used against you.’”

“What can we do?”

“Well,” Foggy mused, “A good character witness would be really helpful, but we can’t question you in court without getting you kicked off the case.”

“There’s got to be one of his old platoon mates still alive,” Steve said. “I’m sure they’d testify for him.”

“Great idea,” Matt nodded at Steve. “We’ll see if we can find a more...trustworthy sounding one. I’m not being rude; we just need to make sure our chances are as good as we can make them.”

“So what can we expect from T’Challa?”

“He’s going to bring in an expert,” Foggy said as he flipped through his notepad. “Who will testify to James’s mental instability. He’ll twist his army experience to make it sound like he’s happy to kill, and his experience as a POW in Russia is what made him snap.”

“POW?” Steve felt like he had been punched in the gut. “Bucky never said anything to me about being held prisoner.”

“Oh.” Foggy clamped his mouth shut, looking guilty. “Sorry, I thought you knew.”

Steve stood up abruptly, pushing back his chair with a scrape of metal on linoleum. “I have to go,” he forced out. “See you tomorrow.” Foggy watched him leave, while Matt listened to his retreating footsteps.

“That’s going to be an interesting conversation,” he muttered.

 

~~~

 

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, Buck?!” Steve said angrily, trying to keep the volume of his voice down. It had taken all of his persuasion for the guard to let him in after visiting hours, and that had been with a large amount of badge-waving. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself kicked out. Bucky looked at him miserably from the other side of the glass. “Was it going to trigger you?” Steve softened his tone.

Bucky shook his head. “I didn’t want you to know,” he murmured. “I didn’t want you to blame yourself.”

“You’re damn right I would’ve blamed myself if you died!” hissed Steve. “I lost you for thirteen _years_ , Bucky, I’m not losing you again!”

Bucky looked up, eyes wide at Steve’s vehemence. His jaw worked for a few seconds, before he finally spoke.

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course I mean it,” Steve replied. “You think a little thing like thirteen years of complete silence is going to make this go away?” He tried to remain flippant, but he could feel how dangerously close his voice was to breaking.

Bucky inhaled sharply. “You mean - ”

“Every day I missed you,” whispered Steve. “I thought about the adventures we could be having, how you should be at college, if I hadn’t been so _stupid_ \- ”

“You weren’t stupid, Stevie.” Bucky shook his head. “I overreacted. That’s all. It’s in the past, we can’t change this any more.”

“We’ve both been stuck in the past. I think it’s time for both of us to move on now.” Steve’s throat was tight, his heart in his mouth. The truth was, he didn’t _want_ to move on. He wanted to hold onto the rose-tinted years he had spent with Bucky, to pretend that everything was ok and his best friend was safe and sound.

He wanted to pretend that Bucky loved him back.

The realization felt like a punch in the gut to Steve. Somehow, part of him thought that if he freed Bucky like a knight in shining armor, it could make him fall in love with Steve. He wouldn’t even need the domestic bliss, 2.5 kids and a white picket fence - he just wanted Bucky to be _happy_. And Steve wanted Bucky to be happy with him.

Steve’s face must’ve spoken volumes, as Bucky knocked softly on the table to get his attention. “Steve? Are you ok?”

He hesitated before nodding slightly, but Bucky didn’t seem convinced.

“Y’know,” he said softly, “When I was - when I - I had a lot of time to think. About how I just left you crying your eyes out. It broke my heart to see you like that, Stevie. There wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t regret what I did.” Bucky looked at Steve with shame in his eyes. “They left me alone, in Russia. In a cell so dark you couldn’t see the hand in front of your face, even after weeks of living in there. Trust me, I had nothing to do but think. Then I realized, I wasn’t angry at you - I was angry at myself. And then I promised myself that if I ever got out of that - that hellhole, I would find you, and I would apologize.”

Steve’s heart was in his mouth as Bucky took a deep breath.

“Steve Rogers, I am sorry for running away when you told me that you were in love with me. I was scared and confused, but what I didn’t realize is that I - I loved you too.”

“You...you…” Steve could barely breathe. “You’re not just saying that?”

“When was the last time I ‘just said’ anything?” Bucky said wryly. “Have a little faith, Stevie.”

Steve laughed breathlessly, and placed his hand against the glass partition. After a moment, Bucky mirrored the gesture.

“I’m getting you out of here, Buck. Just hang on.”

A small vibration startled Steve, and he pulled out his phone. Sam had texted him _meet me at the precinct_.

“I’ve gotta go,” Steve said, pocketing his phone. “I’ll see you soon, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled as he watched Steve stand up from the chair. “Give ‘em hell, Steve,” he whispered.

 

~~~

 

“Check it out,” Sam said, spreading a file across Steve’s desk. “Sitwell and Pierce were in contact multiple times before he died. We don’t have a record of their conversations, just that they happened.”

“It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

Sam smiled knowingly. “Somebody ate his Wheaties this morning. Pierce’s receptionist said a few days before Sitwell bought it, Pierce had a very angry phone call with somebody, and the word ‘funds’ was thrown about a couple times.”

“Somebody was embezzling,” Steve inhaled sharply.

“Not just that - I checked Rumlow’s records, and it turns out the only promotions he’s ever accepted came from Pierce. I think he wanted him in a position of power, but I don’t know why.”

Steve drummed his fingers on his leg. “Sitwell was an analyst, right? Maybe he found something he wasn’t supposed to.”

“He found out Pierce was dirty, and wanted money not to snitch on him,” Sam guessed. “So Rumlow had him killed, and then framed Barnes?” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know, Steve. This is pretty big, even for us.”

“No, it makes sense,” protested Steve. “Bucky had been sleeping on that bench for a while, so they knew where he’d be. With his arm, it would be easy to set up the evidence to point to him. Rumlow tampering with the evidence is just the final touch.”

“Who do we bring this to? We don’t know who’s in on this.”

“We tell Fury,” Steve replied immediately. “He’s clean.” While Captain Fury wasn’t the most open book on the force, Steve and Sam both instinctively knew that he had nothing to do Pierce.

“Do we tell him now? What about the lawyers?”

Steve shook his head. “Not until we have proof. If we’re lucky, we won’t need it to clear Bucky’s name anyway.”

“Well,” Sam sighed, “Looks like my _Cutthroat Kitchen_ marathon is gonna have to wait.”

 

~~~

 

Steve knocked on the side of a cubicle, sticking his head into the entryway. “Hi, uh, Sharon?”

A young woman looked up from her computer, slightly startled.

“Detective Steve Rogers. I was wondering if you could help me with some questions about Jasper Sitwell.”

“Oh, sure,” Sharon replied. Steve perched on the edge of her desk, flipping his notebook to an empty page.

“Do you know if Sitwell had found anything unusual on the servers recently?”

Sharon shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Was he expecting a raise or a bonus? Anything like that?”

“I think he said something about wanting a new car,” Sharon frowned. “I wasn’t paying attention - we weren’t really friends.”

Now it was Steve’s turn to frown. “Did he have people that didn’t like him? Enemies, maybe?”

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but everyone thought he was a little sleazy sometimes,” Sharon whispered conspiratorially. “He never made an effort to get to know anyone, you know?”

Steve nodded. “I know the type. Would you be able to send me a record of Sitwell’s server accesses for the last month or so?”

“No problem,” Sharon replied. “Good luck on your investigation, Detective.”

“Thanks,” Steve said with a nod, and left Sharon to her work. A scant hour later, an email popped up on his laptop from Sharon, with all the files attached. She also wrote a post-script that simply said, _Peggy says hi_. Steve raised an eyebrow, replying with _How do you know Peg?_ Within a minute, Sharon answered _She’s my cousin, my parents moved to the States before I was born_. Steve raised his eyebrows. It was always nice to find someone else with a connection to Peggy. Even with Facebook and Skype, they were usually too busy to sustain an actual conversation, and three hour’s time difference felt like three years sometimes. He smiled faintly, picturing Peggy’s inevitable no-nonsense tirade against him about “Not skulking about after unsavory types like a bad spy movie, _Steven Grant Rogers are you even listening to me_?!”

Spurred on by Peggy’s imagined voice, Steve opened a new email and began typing.


	7. Moving Forward

“I really appreciate you flying in, Mr. Jones,” Steve said, shaking the veteran’s hand. Gabe returned the gesture warmly.

“Anything for my friend Bucky.”

“Right, well, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock.” Steve indicated the two lawyers. “They’ll brief you on the sort of questions you’re expected to answer as a character witness.”

Gabe nodded. “I just hope that I can help.”

“You already have,” Steve returned with a small smile. “I’ll see you later today.”

Sam and Steve watched Gabe make his way over to Matt and Foggy, before exchanging a glance.

“Think it’ll be enough?”

Steve sighed. “It’ll have to be.”

When the time came for Gabe to testify, Steve and Sam sat in the audience, Sam’s shoulder against Steve’s in a show of silent compassion. Gabe took his oath, and made his way to the witness box.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Sergeant Gabriel Jones.”

“And what is your relationship to the defendant?”

“We served together in the army.”

“How would you describe Mr. Barnes?” Foggy asked encouragingly.

Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. “Bucky is one of the most capable and compassionate men I have ever met. He was always willing to sacrifice himself - even if it was something as small as passing up his alcohol ration so his men could have more.”

“And do you think Bucky is capable of murdering three innocents in cold blood?”

“Objection,” T’Challa interrupted. “Leading the witness.”

“Objection overruled,” said the judge. “Continue, Mr. Jones.”

“Not Bucky,” Gabe replied, shaking his head. “That was always our number one priority, rescuing innocents.”

“And can you go into more detail about the sort of priorities you had?” Foggy and Gabe had practiced their questions repeatedly, and their speech fell into a smooth back-and-forth.

“Most of it’s still classified, but we were often on rescue missions. Bucky acted as our sniper, protecting the rest of our platoon from threats we couldn’t see on the ground. He saved all of our lives more times than I can count.”

Steve craned his neck to look at Bucky, who had lowered his head in modesty as Gabe continued to list his virtues. He couldn’t help but feel his heart swell at the anecdotes the soldier told, reaffirming what he already knew about Bucky. Eventually, Foggy ran out of questions, and Gabe was excused, leaving T’Challa to call a new witness.

“The prosecution calls Doctor Helmut Zemo to the stand.”

 _Oh shit_. Steve’s stomach sank. He’d completely forgotten T’Challa’s plan to call in an expert, it figured that it would be Zemo.

“Do you think Zemo’s involved?” Sam whispered to Steve.

“How could he not be? You heard the interview.”

“Dr. Zemo, in your professional opinion, what is the state of the defendant’s mental health?”

Zemo adjusted his glasses slightly. “Mr. Barnes suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD. This causes him to have flashbacks to a time of trauma, making him unaware of his current surroundings.”

“And if the defendant were to experience a flashback, is it possible for him to become violent?” There it was; the fact that T’Challa’s case rested on. Even though he knew what Zemo would say, Steve waited for the answer with baited breath.

“Absolutely,” Zemo confirmed. “I have seen it first-hand myself. Had I not already left the room, I would fear for my safety.”

Hushed murmurs rippled throughout the jury at Zemo’s proclamation, and Steve hung his head. All the sway that Gabe had given them had just been yanked out from underneath their feet. Suddenly, a voice broke through the babble.

“Objection, your Honor. We would like to call into question the capacity of the witness.” Matt’s voice was clear and strong. “We have a recording of Dr. Zemo’s interview with defendant, which clearly shows his attempts to provoke him into suffering a flashback.” T’Challa shot him a glare, but then bit his lip.

“Please, play this recording for us.”

Matt passed Foggy the flash drive containing the recording, and Foggy made his way to the computer at the front of the court. He plugged it in, bringing up surveillance footage of Bucky and Zemo in the questioning room.

“I see - you feel trapped.” Zemo’s voice was slightly scratchy through the speakers. “Tell me, how did you come to have only one arm? Were you born without it, or did you lose it? Were you in the war?”

On-screen, Bucky became visibly agitated, fidgeting and staring at the camera. Foggy paused the video, pointing to his clenched fist.

“As you can see, Mr. Barnes doesn’t even have a chance to answer Dr. Zemo’s questions,” he said triumphantly. “He’s asking them quickly enough to suggest ideas to our client, to trigger him into reliving a traumatic event that he would no doubt like to forget.”

Foggy fast-forwarded the rest of the video, pausing it just as Steve and Sam ran in to restrain Bucky. “Thus, we would ask the prosecution to consult a different expert in the matter, one that is not as biased, and all evidence Dr. Zemo has given to be struck from the record.”

The silence in the room was deafening as the judge considered. Steve could feel the entire world slow down and zone in exclusively on her, her hand picking up the gavel in slow motion.

“The motion passes,” she said. “The prosecution must find a new expert to testify to the defendant’s mental health.”

Steve wanted to shout with joy, to leap from his seat and wrap Bucky in a bear hug. Natasha could sense his excitement, and placed a hand on his arm with a faint smile. They were close now; both of them could feel it.

 

~~~

 

“Check it out,” Tony said, waving Bucky’s prosthetic arm. “I got some info on this tech.” He pulled up a website on his tablet, then passed it over for Steve to read.

“Hydra Corp?” Steve read.

Tony nodded. “They’ve got fingers in so many pies, they’ve probably spread salmonella. This is a prototype from their medical robotics division. Barnes must’ve agreed to be part of an experiment in exchange for some cash.”

“Who runs it?”

“The CEO is Aldrich Killian, but it’s a publicly owned company. And get this - the commissioner isn’t just _a_ stockholder, he’s _the_ stockholder. He’s got 75 percent of the shares under his belt.”

Steve breathed in sharply. “Of course,” he whispered. “It all makes sense now.”

“Huh?”

“Tony, you have no idea how helpful you’ve just been,” Steve said, hurriedly grabbing his coat and the tablet. “I’ll buy you a drink later, ok?” He rushed out the door, leaving Tony standing in the middle of the lab with a confused expression. Bruce dodged Steve on his way in, looking between the two men.

“What was that about?” He asked, adjusting his glasses.

“Rogers stole my tablet and said he would buy me a drink.”

Bruce blinked. “Are you sure that was Steve?”

“Unless those Life Model Decoys finally took off, then yeah, I’m sure.”

“...ok. Think he’d buy me one too?”

 

~~~

 

“I’ve got our connection,” Steve said breathlessly, slamming the tablet down on Sam’s desk. “Bucky’s arm came from Hydra Corp, and Pierce is their biggest stockholder. Sitwell found out Pierce was dirty, and wanted money not to rat him out. They gave Bucky the arm so they could set him up for Sitwell’s murder, then killed Natchios and Kilgrave as a cover up.”

“Makes sense,” Sam muttered. “Everyone would suspect Sitwell as the odd one out, rather than the reason this whole mess happened.”

“Zemo, Bullard, and Rumlow all had shares in Hydra Corp as well.” Steve pulled up the list on the tablet and showed it to Sam. “There’s some more cops on here, too.”

Sam looked at the list and whistled softly. “So Pierce gave them shares as payment for doing what he wanted?”

“Losing evidence, skipped 9-1-1 calls, any sort of corruption. We both know it exists, Sam, but we’ve never had the evidence until now.”

“We have to take this to Fury now,” Sam said grimly. “We’ve got probable cause with Sharon’s intel and the info on Hydra Corp; it’s enough to take Pierce in before he does any more damage.”

“I thought you were the one warning me about not going all loose cannon?” Steve replied with a small smirk.

“Steve, I know you want this guy put away as bad as I do. Hell, probably more. But this isn’t just about Bucky, this is about doing our jobs. Be honest, Steve, if this had been some random guy and not Bucky, would you have spent half as much time on this case as you have?”

Steve stopped in his tracks, his partner’s question piercing him like a shot. Sam was right - he had thrown himself into this case with a dedication he hadn’t felt since he was a rookie. The truth was that the world had gotten to him a little over the years, had made him a little more cynical and jaded than the wide-eyed idealist he’d been when he had joined the force. It seemed inevitable that when you were exposed to the worst of humanity, you changed - Sam’s humor seemed more of a coping mechanism than anything else, and Natasha would assault a punching bag until her knuckles were raw and the fabric on the verge of tearing rather than open up.

But Steve never said a word, just locked everything down until it was a concentrated ball of emotion that gathered in the back of his mind like dust bunnies under a bed. When he had seen Bucky, his emotions had risen to the surface, fear and anger and loss making a potent cocktail that only increased Steve’s drive for justice. He couldn’t deny it - Sam was far too perceptive for him to backtrack now.

“You’re right,” Steve said after a pause. “This is because of Bucky. But Sam, if you could do something for Riley, even if you weren’t sure it would work, wouldn’t you try?” It was a low blow and Steve knew it, and the murderous glare Sam gave him let Steve know he knew it too. Eventually, Sam backed down from the stare, but he clearly wasn’t happy.

“Riley wasn’t just my wingman,” he muttered. “He was my best friend, too. But Bucky’s not just your best friend, is he.” It was more of a statement than a question, and Steve froze guiltily.

“I’m a detective, remember?” Sam smiled slightly, attempting to lighten the mood. “I find things out for a living.”

“And you’re damn good at it,” Steve conceded with a small grin. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“And risk this case? Absolutely not,” vowed Sam. “If he ever wants to talk, just...point him in my direction, alright?”

Steve nodded. If Bucky ever felt up to it, he knew just how gentle and compassionate Sam could be, without pushing or coaxing.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”


	8. Freedom

“Mr. Barnes, if you can, please tell us about the time you spent in the army.” Everett Ross’s face was surprisingly sympathetic, at odds with his grey-blond hair and the sharp lines in his face.

Bucky cleared his throat slightly. “Once I finished basic, I went through extra training as a sniper. I did that for about seven years, before I was captured. I was held by Chechnyan separatists for three years, give or take a month, at which point I lost my arm. Eventually, I was rescued by a unit that was sweeping the area, and I came back to the US.” It was a very cut-and-dried version, and everyone knew it, but between classified details and Bucky’s PTSD, there wasn’t much more he could safely say.

“And how has this affected your current life?”

“I think that’s kind of obvious,” Bucky retorted, earning a small chuckle from the jury. “Besides my arm, I...I have issues sleeping. I get, um, flashbacks? Is that what they’re called?” Everett nodded encouragingly. “Yeah, flashbacks. Once the VA discharged me, I couldn’t hold down a job, so I went out into the streets.”

“How long have you been homeless, Mr. Barnes?”

“About a year? I’m not sure. There’s not much to count the days with.” Steve could see a few members of the jury looking sympathetic.

“This is good,” Foggy whispered with his eyebrows raised. T’Challa shot him a glare at the interruption, but did not press it.

“I see.” Everett turned crisply on his heel. “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is very clear to me that Mr. Barnes is suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD. However, this would not put him in a state capable of committing these murders, as he does not suffer any delusions. My complete report is listed as evidence, should the jury wish to examine it. Thank you, that is all.”

That was it - the final nail in T’Challa’s coffin. Steve wanted to jump from his chair and kiss Everett on the cheek, but settled for a large grin. The rest of the day passed in a blur for him, and Steve only noticed the jury filing out to deliberate when Natasha poked him in the side. Although he knew that deliberation could take anywhere from a few minutes to a few days, Steve couldn’t help but hold his breath.

 

~~~

 

The jury took five hours to reach a verdict, and Steve spent all 18,000 agonizing seconds alternating between pacing up and down the hallway and bouncing on the edge of his seat.

“Easy, Steve,” Sam said in a low voice. “You look like an overcaffeinated hummingbird.”

“I know, it’s just - ” Steve let out a wordless groan of frustration and ran his hands through his hair. “I just feel so helpless. Everything’s completely out of my control.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the way it works.” Despite her wry humour, Natasha’s voice felt like a balm. “Relax, Steve. The lawyers did a great job; worst case scenario we’ll get a mistrial and Bucky’ll spend a few days in jail for sleeping on a bench.”

“But that’s not the worst case scenario, is it.” Nobody answered Steve’s statement, and the three sat in silence for a long minute. Of course, he was right - there was still a chance, no matter how slim, that Bucky would be found guilty. Steve didn’t even want to think about Bucky spending the rest of his life in prison, separated from the few people who cared about him by a glass partition. Yet the thought still coiled around his brain like an insidious cloud of smoke, refusing to let go.

Fortunately, the jury chose that moment to return, and Steve bustled into the courtroom to hear the verdict, Sam and Natasha hot on his heels.

“How do you find the defendant?” The judge asked. You could have heard a flea sneeze, the courtroom was so silent.

“Not guilty.”

“And is this decision unanimous?”

The foreman nodded. “Yes.”

“The defendant is hereby cleared of all charges,” the judge announced, and brought down her gavel. At Steve’s side, Sam began to clap, followed quickly by Natasha. Matt and Foggy joined in, Foggy letting out a wolf whistle. With a smile on his face, Steve began to clap too, meeting Bucky’s eyes. To his surprise, T’Challa began to clap as well, and made his way over to Steve.

“It gave me no pleasure to prosecute this man,” he said. “At first, I was assured of his guilt, but once it was clear that he was innocent, I would have gladly done everything I could to throw the case in your favor had it not cost my career. I hope you can understand.”

Steve nodded, reaching out to shake the prosecutor’s hand. “I see your dilemma,” he said. “Thank you for not making this more difficult than it needed to be. Take care, Prosecutor.”

“Likewise, Detective.” A faint smile appeared on T’Challa’s face. “Until the next case.”

 

~~~

 

As soon as Bucky stepped out the gate from Riker’s, Steve stepped towards him with an arm extended.

“Not now,” Bucky hissed, and swatted his arm away. Steve grimaced, remembering the flood of news cameras currently surrounding them. He made as if to shield Bucky, and escorted him through the throng. They made it a few blocks down, away from the mass of media, and then they both ducked into an alley. Steve and Bucky were instantly together, enveloping each other in a bone-crushing hug.

“We did it, Buck,” Steve breathed, his face pressed into Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re safe now.”

Bucky couldn’t audibly respond, and only clung to Steve harder. He sniffled faintly, his entire body trembling. Steve let his free hand drift to Bucky’s hair, and stroked it soothingly. Both overcome with emotion, the two men stayed together in the alleyway for what felt like an eternity, the entire world condensed to each other.

Steve pulled back slightly, running his hand under Bucky’s chin to bring his head up. Their eyes met, faces still only inches apart.

“Steve,” Bucky whispered, so exhausted and relieved that Steve simply couldn’t bear it any more. He brought Bucky’s face closer to his own, kissing him as the roar of distant traffic was replaced by the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He didn’t push Bucky hard, letting him dictate the pace as they continued to cling to each other.

“Well, well,” said a voice, startling Steve and Bucky apart. “I knew you must’ve had something invested in this case, but I never guessed it was getting laid.” Lieutenant Rumlow stood at the entrance of the alley, holding his gun with a smug grin. Bucky froze on the spot, eyes wide. Steve started to move towards Rumlow, but the corrupt officer stopped his movement by turning the gun towards him.

“Rumlow, you sack of shit,” Steve growled. “Here to finish Pierce’s dirty work?”

Rumlow glared at the detective. “You should’ve just hired Landman and Zack,” he retorted. “Then your boyfriend could’ve gone to a nice cushy loony bin, and nobody would’ve been the wiser.”

“Hydra Corp’s gonna tank once this gets out, you have to know that,” Steve pleaded. “Any shares the commissioner gave you will be worthless.”

“Not if it doesn’t get out.” Rumlow’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Who else knows? We’ve already got Wilson.”

Steve swallowed hard at the mention of Sam’s name, praying he wasn’t dead. “Nobody, just me. Rumlow, please, don’t make a mistake here.”

“You think this is about money?” Rumlow laughed. “I’m just trying to save my own skin here. If it’s any consolation, we’ll have a really nice funeral. Now, who dies first?” Rumlow swung his gun back and forth slowly between Steve and Bucky, pausing briefly on each man. “Eeny...meeny...miny...moe.”

The gun landed on Steve, pointed square at his chest. Steve hesitated, scenarios running through his mind, but he couldn’t see any way out of this one. He squared his shoulders, looking him straight in the eye.

“Do it, but don’t hurt Bucky.”

Rumlow shrugged, then pulled the trigger.

Steve had heard stories from officers involved in near-death experiences that time slowed down, but he hadn’t realized just how much it would slow. He could feel his heartbeat change from a brisk thrum to a stately beat, hear his own sharp inhale as the muzzle of Rumlow’s gun flashed.

Suddenly, an inhuman roar cut through the still air, and Steve saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye as Bucky charged Rumlow, his face transformed into a mask of fury. Rumlow’s eyes widened as he saw the approaching soldier, but it was too late to change his aim. Bucky tackled the corrupt officer in a flawless takedown, knocking his arm upwards.

Steve opened his mouth to shout Bucky’s name, but before he could, he felt like he had been shoved in the shoulder, and fell to the ground. Pain lanced through his arm, and it suddenly grew warmer. Looking down, Steve saw a patch of blood blossom across his shirt, trickling down his arm in crimson rivulets. Dimly, some part of his brain told him he’d been shot and should be applying pressure, but he had too much adrenaline in his system to do anything other than stare.

The gun went off again, and Steve scrambled to his feet, torn from his panic. Bucky and Rumlow were on the ground wrestling for the gun, which had gone off as they struggled. However, Bucky’s missing arm was proving to be a problem, and Rumlow was gaining the upper hand. Careful to stay on their right side, Steve grabbed Rumlow by the collar and punched him in the face. Using the distraction, Bucky managed to wrest the gun away from the corrupt officer, holding it between his knees to put the safety on and remove the clip.

“Where’s Sam, you bastard?” snarled Steve, hoisting Rumlow off the ground by his lapels. Rumlow was silent, and Steve punched him in the face again to encourage him.

“His apartment,” Rumlow said, spitting blood. “He’s still alive - for now.” Steve glanced at Bucky, who wordlessly nodded. He re-installed the clip as Steve cuffed Rumlow to a drainpipe, gun trained on the officer.

“You ok?” He asked. Bucky nodded, his hand steady.

“Go get him, Stevie. I got this.”

Steve nodded, radioing the nearest car to pick up Rumlow as he hopped into his own vehicle. Flipping on the lights, he made his way to Sam’s apartment and ran up the stairs.

“NYPD, drop your weapons!” He shouted, and kicked at the door until it fell in. Sam looked up from where he was tied to a chair, a gag in his mouth. Steve quickly pulled it out, and Sam gasped a deep breath.

“What the hell took you so long?” He wheezed. “I thought Rumlow had got you for sure.”

“He did.”

Sam’s eyes widened as he saw the gunshot wound on Steve’s shoulder. “Shit. Are you alright?”

Steve nodded, but he could already feel his hands starting to shake as the adrenaline wore out. “I thought I’d spare you the indignity of being the buddy cop,” he joked.

“Oh, like being tied up in a chair is any better.”

Sam removed the last of the duct tape around his legs, groaning as he stood up. Meanwhile, Steve placed a hand on the back of the chair as his vision started to blur. He knew he’d lost a decent amount of blood, and he sat down heavily. Sam was instantly at his side, pressing a kitchen towel over the wound.

“Hang on, partner,” he said, voice urgent. “I’ll call the ambulance. Just hang on, Steve.”

However, Steve could feel himself fading, and he spiralled into unconsciousness, Sam’s voice ringing in his ears.

 

~~~

 

A faint beeping woke Steve, and he reflexively turned to shut off his alarm. However, the action sent a stab of pain through his shoulder, causing him to make an undignified whimper and fall back into the bed. Sam, Natasha, and Bucky were instantly by his side, looming over him with sympathetic smiles.

“Hey, Stevie,” Buck said softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” rasped Steve. Sam passed him a glass of water, which Steve promptly downed.

“Congratulations on losing your gunshot wound virginity,” Sam joked. “Now you literally feel my pain.”

“I could’ve lived with celibacy in that particular area.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Lucky for you, the bullet only nicked your collarbone. A bit of PT and you should have more or less full range of movement in no time.”

Steve let out a small huff of relief, sinking back into the marshmallowy pillows while mentally making a note to ask the next nurse for some firmer ones. However, Bucky still eyed him with concern, and Steve did his best to smile reassuringly.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “I’ll give you two some time alone.” He made a hasty retreat, quickly followed by Natasha, who took a second to wink at Steve before she went through the door. Steve and Bucky sat in silence for a long minute.

“So,” Bucky said finally.

“Yeah.” Steve really had no idea what to say; even with the adrenaline of their encounter with Rumlow, he couldn’t forget the way Bucky’s mouth had felt against his. “That happened.”

“It did,” Bucky agreed. “Unless I really _have_ started getting delusions.”

The dark humor startled Steve, but when he saw Bucky’s smile, Steve let out a small chuckle. Bucky returned it, leaning in towards Steve. Dark strands of hair curtained over Bucky’s face, and Steve used his uninjured arm to brush them out of the way. His hand remained on Bucky’s cheek, thumb stroking over the faint stubble. Bucky smiled again, and braced his arm on the pillow to lean closer. Steve brought his face up towards Bucky, and the two shared a kiss, slower and less fervent than the one in the alley, but no less passionate. And in spite of the pain in his shoulder and the inevitable barrage of arrests he’d have to deal with, Steve knew that things would work out in the end.


	9. Epilogue: Six Months Later

Steve unlocked the door to his apartment, flicking a few sweaty strands of hair out of his face as he opened the door. The sun had only been up for about an hour, and he had gone out for his morning run at the same time Bucky had left for the tai chi class that Melinda May taught. The veteran found it surprisingly relaxing, the slow movement a welcome change from the fast-paced life he had been living. Steve poured himself a glass of orange juice and grabbed a bowl of cereal before settling down in front of the computer to read the news. Pierce’s prison term was due to begin soon, and Fury instated as the new commissioner. T’Challa had wasted no time in bringing the corrupt officers to justice, Steve thought with a smile.

A short while later, Steve heard the _click_ of Bucky’s key in the lock, and he entered the apartment with a sigh.

“That stuff’s harder than it looks,” Bucky grumbled as he dropped his yoga mat in the closet. “How was your run?”

“Good,” Steve said absentmindedly as Bucky dropped his chin onto Steve’s shoulder.

“I got you something.” Steve turned his head to look at Bucky, who had his hand behind his back. He pulled it out, revealing a leather-bound notebook. “I know you always loved drawing, and I saw this in a little corner shop.”

Steve reverently ran his fingers across the cover, before opening the notebook. The paper was thick and a creamy off-white, wonderfully textured under his fingertips.

“It’s beautiful,” he smiled, and planted a kiss on Bucky’s cheek. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Any time, babe,” Bucky replied. “Now get in the shower; you stink and I want to check the internet.”

“So do you.”

Steve’s retort earned him a good-natured flick on the shoulder, but he got out of the chair and made his way towards the bathroom.

“Care to join me?” he asked flirtatiously.

Bucky snorted. “You and I both know goddamn well that we can’t fit in there at the same time.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

 

_THE END_


End file.
